


right key... wrong lock

by black_nata



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Bottom Roman, Gentle Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, Prostitute Roman, Top Jon Moxley, Virgin Jon Moxley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 09:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19315507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_nata/pseuds/black_nata
Summary: Mox gently strokes the side of his face. That's all. Pets him nice and soft and says, "Pretty," and Roman feels the sudden urge to pick his things and run straight out the door, away from whatever this is.





	right key... wrong lock

His socks are wet. Rain puddle seeping into his frayed white sneakers —at least they're still white, he muses, at least they look presentable enough that he won't have to cough up coins he doesn't have to buy a new pair— but he won't move an inch if it means keeping himself a little more dry. This is his spot. This is where he stands every night, his little square of pavement that the girls were kind enough to let him have.  
  
  Kindness isn't really currency around these parts, or any parts, as far as Roman's concerned. He isn't used to it. Feels bitter on his tongue, makes acid churn wild in his gut, threatening to spill out. Doesn't make any sense. The things that should upset him feel like nothing, but kindness? That hurts like a knife.  
  
  He takes it nonetheless. There's hardly a choice in the matter. He can either stand here at odd hours on the off chance that someone might come by and put a little money in his pocket, or he can download one of those apps; and there ain't a chance in hell he's putting his pictures up for all to see. Even if it's quicker, better, safer, even if it means not getting water in his shoes and an ache in his knees from standing so long. Because that's better than the possibility of someone finding out that... That he's doing this. Someone like his cousins, maybe, or worse.  
  
  As long as he's keeping his little girl fed, Roman's happy. As happy as somebody in his shoes can be.  
  
  He sniffles, shaking his head. Tries to make any thoughts tumble out and fade into the night. They won't help. Won't do anything but get him down, keep him distracted from the task at hand, from putting food on the table and rent in his piece of shit landlord's hands.  
  
  Roman sighs. Straightens his back, pushes his chest out like he saw Sasha do the first night he stood at the corner trying to make a few extra bucks. He'd made an awful sight, he knew. His eyes were red, swollen with tears he'd spilled over the lights getting cut and his little girl having to do her homework in the dark. The bar he'd been working at got shut down, and his two other jobs wouldn't cut it anymore. So he stood there, dejected, looking sick and small and kicked-puppy-like despite his size, just long enough for the girls to start calling him 'big dog'.  
  
  They let him have his little spot in the corner, out of pity, probably. They taught him how to stand so he'd actually look like the product and not security for the girls. They told him what to say, too, how much he should charge, what to keep in his bag for emergencies, or for customers who weren't willing to cooperate. They were good to him. Still are, even a year later.  
  
  He clutches the strap of his backpack tighter, goosebumps rising over his flesh at the cold. Scolds himself over not wearing something warmer but knows all the same that people won't buy the product unless they can see it, and they can't do that if he's wearing a damn sweater. So he grinds his teeth, plants a foot on the dirty wall behind him and tries to look like he's asking for a good time, threadbare tank showing off his chest, his arms. Even though there's basically nobody around.  
  
  Slow night. But things always pick up after midnight, like some fucked-up reverse fairytale. He made a good five hundred last night, and Roman doesn't doubt he'll make a couple more before morning, before he packs it up and heads home to have breakfast ready for the little one. And then do it all over again.  
  
  "Look who's here again," a soft voice says.  
  
  Roman turns to find Bayley staring across the street at something, worry drawing her brows together. He doesn't have to look to know what she's talking about, but he does anyway, and the sharp inhale he takes at the sight is the same it's always been. Across the street stands a lone figure in a hoodie. Tall, tense, muscles packed under the clothes, Roman can tell as much. Can't really tell much else. Besides the sharp blue eyes staring back at him from the shadows, full of intent.  
  
  "Jeez, that guy creeps me out," Bayley says, hands stuffed in the pockets of her tight jeans.  
  
  But she had nothing to worry about. It's Roman he's looking at. It's Roman he's always looking at, staring at for minutes that feel like hours under that intense gaze, and even with two hundred and fifty pounds' worth of muscle on him, Roman can't help but feel scared. What the hell does this guy want? Why doesn't he ever do something besides stand there barely moving, staring and staring until Roman starts feeling sick. He's not even sure he wants to find out what the guy wants. Figures he'll rue the day the guy finally comes over and pulls a knife on him, or something, just for trying to make a living. For being the only man standing at the corner with the girls, maybe.  
  
  Roman curls in on himself. Lowers his eyes out of habit, a year's worth of crap running through his mind. A big, tattooed guy like him, he thought he'd never make a pay day when he first started. But people seemed to like it. Seemed to like cutting him down to size, making him small, doing anything they pleased to make themselves feel stronger. And Roman was fine letting them do it, as long as he got paid fair. He's okay with it. Mostly.  
  
  Though the way this guy keeps looking at him makes Roman certain that he won't be okay with any of what he's got in mind. It's been like this for weeks. Whatever the guy's building up to, it can't be good.  
  
  Before Roman can summon the courage to go over there and knock some answers out of the man, a beat-up little hatchback rolls up on the street in front of him, chugging fumes. A squeaky window rolls down, and Bayley leaves her spot for the potential customer. By the time the little car rolls out of view with Bayley in the passenger seat, the hooded figure with the blue eyes is gone.  
  
  Somewhere along the night, Roman manages to find himself a customer. Nothing too bad, just an Irish dude a little older than him trying to relieve some tension. Isn't too bad on the eyes, either. He doesn't try to hurt Roman, choke him, whip him, or do any of the stuff he's become accustomed to. Doesn't even pull his hair. Roman leaves the motel with a little stack warming his pocket and his body intact, feeling very thankful.  
  
  When Roman gets back to his little corner, blue eyes is standing there again, staring, burning holes through Roman with his gaze.  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
  "How's school, sweetie?"  
  
  "It's okay, I guess. I don't like math."  
  
  Roman chuckles into the phone pressed against his ear. He got his little girl a matching one so they could talk, when he's working at the gym and she's having lunch break. His morning job doesn't pay much, but it has its perks. Free showers, sandwiches and drinks on discount, air-conditioning. Beats his night job by a mile, but doesn't come close to paying the bills like it.  
  
  "You eating good?" Roman asks, trying his best not to take on an overly-parenting tone.  
  
  The little one hums in agreement on the other end, and a smile tugs on the corners of his mouth. As long as his girl's healthy and fed, nothing else matters. Roman would take the pain of being a single father a hundred times over if it means getting to see his kid happy at the end of the day.  
  
  "All right," he says, "Take care, now. You be good!"  
  
  Yeah, he'd take that pain a hundred times over. But that doesn't mean it wouldn't hurt every damn time. Because it did. Bad. After the nice Irish guy last night, things went south real fast. And it wasn't blue eyes setting a chill into his spine that did it, but a power-tripping piece of crap that came in at 3 in the morning and wanted all the things Roman hates.  
  
  So now Roman can't stand looking in a mirror for more than two seconds, couldn't even look his little girl in the eye this morning before she ran out the door to catch the bus to school, and the mere thought of food makes him feel sick. That's been happening a lot this past year. He used to be big. Real big, even compared to the rest of his extended Samoan family, but stress and guilt and pain took plenty off of him. If it wasn't for the gym, he'd barely think of eating. His co-worker Seth keeps Roman out of his own head long enough for him to crush a shared sandwich platter, even if all he really does is rant about CrossFit.  
  
  Roman is thankful for that, too. Most of the time, his thoughts are just a spinning reel of the year's greatest hits. His worst moments, playing over and over again until sometimes all he wants to do is put an end to it for good. But he'd never do that. He wouldn't do that to his little girl. She deserves a good life, even if it is at his expense. It's a price he's willing to pay.  
  
  He makes his way back home at five, happy to find the kid napping at the kitchen table, face-down on her math book. Yeah, he isn't much good at math, either, but he tries. At least they have the internet now, Roman scrounging enough dollars to keep the lights on and have WiFi, too. It feels like a luxury, especially in this run-down single-bedroom shithole they call home, but it helps his daughter with homework better than Roman ever could.  
  
  The little one wakes up just as he's setting pasta to boil on the stove. He throws in a couple chopped up sausages for protein, the best he can do at the moment, and adds ketchup to the mix in place of tomato sauce. Next week, he tells himself. Next week, he'll have enough money to get good groceries, something cheap but healthy like pork, bread and butter, milk, rice, the works. No more ketchup pasta. Until the next rent day comes, that is.  
  
  The thought sours his stomach. He skips dinner to take a shower, clean himself out for the night, hoping there'd be well-paying customers to make up for the time and effort. Time and effort he could be spending with his kid.  
  
  Roman sighs. Little one fed and tucked in, he allows himself a couple hours of sleep on the pull-out sofa that makes his bed. Next week, he muses. He'll get the good groceries and take his girl for ice cream. They could go watch a movie, even. Next week.  
  
  At midnight, the alarm from his beat-up brick of a phone lets him know it's time to go to work. As far as everyone else is concerned, Roman's still working as a bouncer at a bar somewhere on the wrong side of the tracks, not selling pieces of himself at the corner a few blocks from his home. He often thinks about asking his cousins for help, but they have kids of their own, other little mouths to feed and Roman can't put that kind of pressure on anybody but himself. He can do it. Just a little more until they have enough to maybe get an RV or something, move out, not have to pay rent. He can do it.  
  
  He pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants, the ones that show off everything a customer wants to see. The same threadbare tank goes on, still relatively fresh, and his white sneakers— now dry, thanks to the hand dryer at the gym locker room. Long hair tied up in a bun, backpack strapped, he steps out and starts the five-minute walk over to his little square of pavement.  
  
  "Look who's here again."  
  
  Sure enough, blue eyes is there again. That's weirder than usual. Usually, the guy shows up an hour or two after Roman, and then just stands there, stock still.  
  
  But he's here now. He's here and he's pacing. Back and forth on the sidewalk, body drawn, eyes locked on Roman and Bayley looks like she has a mind to go crossing the street and telling the guy to fuck off, if only for Roman's sake. Something's different, that's for sure. It's setting the girls on edge. And Roman left his pride long ago to not be able to admit that he's scared, too.  
  
  "Think we need to call Joe?" Sasha asks quietly from a few feet away.  
  
  Joe is an enforcer. A good one, too, but he never shows up unless it's something serious. Roman doesn't know if this is serious yet. But the guy is right there, blue eyes sharp, whole body twitching and visibly agitated. Roman doesn't mind getting hurt as long as there's a payday, but if that's not what this is,  he won't ever forgive himself if something happens to the girls because of him.  
  
  Before he can make up his mind, blue eyes is crossing the road.  
  
  Roman feels his gut churn. He expects Bayley to take a step back, as far away from him as possible, but she just squares up in her spot like she's the paid enforcer, not Joe. Then blue eyes is right in front of him. He's tall, like Roman thought, a little shorter than Roman, but that might be the way he's holding himself, hunched over like a cat arching its back to attack. He has a beard. Lips a tight line. Roman can't tell how long his hair is under the hoodie, but it seems buzzed short.  
  
  The guy feels dangerous. Something feral about him. He has his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and Roman can't tell if he's got something there, and he gulps down the rising bile and says, in the softest voice he can muster, "Hey. Want some company tonight?"  
  
  He watches the stranger's throat work in the silence. The guy hasn't blinked once. Roman feels cold sweat bead at his temples and prays it's just another john wanting to smack him around a little, nothing more, that he won't bleed out in a ditch tonight and leave his girl all alone in the world.  
  
   "'m M-Mox," the guy stammers. Voice like gravel.  
  
  Roman blinks. Is that supposed to mean something?  
  
  "N-name's Mox."  
  
  Oh. Roman pushes down the anxiety and says, "Hey Mox. I'm Rome."  
  
  He doesn't care about using something so close to his real name. It's ostentatious enough to sound fake, and nobody really gives a damn about names anyway. Even customers use fakes. This one seems to roll the name on his tongue for a long while, trying to sound it out but visibly failing. It doesn't take long for Roman to figure out that maybe blue eyes has some kind of speech disorder.  
  
  Nonetheless, he doesn't push. The guy still hasn't blinked and Roman doesn't want to do something that's gonna set the guy off, so he stays quiet and watches Mox struggle with the word a while longer before...  
  
  "R-R-Ro," he says, and then once more, "Ro."  
  
  Close enough.  
  
  "Nice to meet you, man," Roman says, trying to get things back on track. He can still feel Bayley all tense nearby, can feel the anxiety pouring off the other girls in waves, though it's not as thick as before. Mox doesn't seem to notice. He only has eyes for Roman, sharp gaze still sinking into his own uncomfortably. "You looking for something special tonight?"  
  
  If Roman was a superstitious man, he'd be crossing his fingers behind his back right about now. But bad luck seems to come to him no matter what, so he just steels himself for the inevitable gut-punch this man is certain to deliver.  
  
  The question seems to pull Mox out of his trance a little, eyes blinking for the first time. He licks his lips, hangs his head, looks around, real twitchy, always twitchy, to the point where Roman starts to feel himself twitching, too, fingers drumming on his thighs.  
  
  "I-I..." Mox starts, every single syllable catching in his throat with a rasp. "I g-got money," he says, and somewhat discreetly turns to the side to show Roman the fat roll of dollar bills in his hoodie's pocket.  
  
  Holy shit. That's pretty much the last thing Roman was expecting to see in the guy's pockets. He hides the shock under a soft smile and tries to tell himself that the worst of the night is over even though a million questions start running through his mind, putting bitterness in his gut. How'd a raggedy-looking guy like Mox get this much money? What exactly is he planning on asking Roman to do in exchange for all that? In Roman's experience, more money just means more pain. But for that kind of money, Roman already knows what his own answer is gonna be. Anything for his little girl.  
  
  "There's a motel down the street, buddy," Roman says. "Wanna go there?"  
  
  But Mox shakes his head hard enough to knock his hood right off, and yeah, he's buzzed short, and Roman hopes that Mox misses the slight widening of his eyes when Roman notices the big scar on the top of his scalp. Jesus. Looks like somebody split his head wide open a long time ago, judging by the way the tissue's healed over. But it's still pretty gnarly. A hit that bad, combined with his stammer... Roman thinks he's starting to put the pieces together.  
  
  Mox runs a hand through his buzzed dirty blonde strands before pressing long fingers at his collarbone. "I, um..." he swallows, eyes staring far away at a point over Roman's head. "I g-g... Live r-real close. 'm real close, o-over there."  
  
  He points at a block of run-down flats on the other side of a street, one, maybe two minutes walk.  
  
  "'s clean, I swear. 's tidy," Mox says, like that even matters. Roman's used to grimy floors and musty sheets, cold hands grabbing at him and not giving a shit how dirty he might think things are in the process. He doesn't know how to react to Mox's statement, so he just keeps smiling softly, more to ease himself than anything, and tells Mox to lead the way.  
  
  He catches the way the girls look at him before he goes. Bayley and Sasha and even the others he doesn't often talk to, the unspoken warning in their eyes. The hope that it won't be the last time they see him. It all makes Roman feel sick. It's stupid, he knows, following the creep that's been staring at him for weeks, but if it all works out, he'll have enough to not worry about rent for a couple months. Besides, Roman's a big guy. He can take care of himself when the shit hits the fan. Though he's never tried to before, no matter how bad it got.  
  
  They walk down the street side to side, Mox giving Roman a wide berth, fingers still tapping a steady rhythm on his collarbone. Roman swallows. The guy's a little broken, he tells himself, that's all. He's harmless. Won't hurt him too bad, right? Roman shakes his head and keeps walking. It won't help, over-thinking things. It just is what it is. He just needs to make sure his backpack's close, in case things go south.  
  
  The front door to Mox's building is busted open. Barely hanging off a squeaky hinge, but Mox still steps in front and holds it open for him. Roman forces a smile and goes through. It's dark, pitch black but for the single flickering bulb at the top of the staircase. His guts wind themselves in knots at the thought of this being some kind of trap. He stands there, not moving, waiting for Mox to take the lead again, breathing out softly when he does. It's all fine. Just a regular shithole, no worse than his own. Mox doesn't mean any harm. Roman tells himself that over and over again, a soothing mantra.  
  
  Mercifully, the steps creak louder than his thoughts, offering a strange kind of reprieve. Mox climbs the stairs the same way he does everything— quick, spastic movements, like his body can't take the pressure of its own coiled muscles. It looks worse under the flickering light, all of Mox's little tics and spasms amplified. It's contagious. Sets Roman on edge in a way he's never been before. By the time they make it to the door, Roman feels lightheaded with anxiety.  
  
  Mox finally opens the door and...  
  
  Oh wow. It's... neat. And clean. Mox wasn't kidding. The place is homey and soft-looking, like something out of a magazine. It smells nice. There's a small living room area with books, and a nice plush rug, and cushions. Roman's place doesn't even have cushions, just a pillow he sleeps with. There's a kitchen, too, looking clean but well-used, dishes and pans stacked up neatly on a drying rack.  
  
  Mox is looking at him. It takes Roman a while to realize he's standing at the doorway like an idiot, jaw slack and eyes wide.  
  
  "Wow, man," he says, clearing his throat. "It's real nice in here."  
  
  Mox —hand to God— blushes, turning rosy as a smile makes his cheeks chubby and full. His previous twitchiness seems to melt away, blue eyes shyly looking down at his own feet, and Roman can't believe this is the same guy that's been staring at him for weeks with the sharpest, most scathing gaze.  
  
  The complete one-eighty has his head spinning. He's pretty sure that all of this is some kind of front for whatever horror show is waiting in the bedroom, be that a torture rack or a vibrating sex swing or a goddamn chainsaw. No matter what, Roman can't seem to make himself relax. But Mox can't seem to do that either. Soon enough, he's back to his twitchy self, pacing around the room like a trapped animal that doesn't know which way is out.  
  
  Roman lets the door close as quietly as possible, not wanting to startle Mox in any way.  
  
  "N-n-," Mox stammers.  
  
  His eyes slide shut, squeeze hard, like he's concentrating with everything he's got.  
  
  "I n-nev..." he tries so hard, Roman can see that plain as day, but the words won't come out. "N-n—  I can't, tr-tryin'... F-Fuck!" he shouts.  
  
  Roman jumps. He doesn't mean to, usually he can stifle such reactions before they even happen, cos customers don't appreciate it otherwise, but he's been jumpy ever since Mox crossed the street and the guy's constant bursts of energy aren't helping.  
  
  But the minute Roman reacts, Mox freezes in his tracks, like a goddamn deer in headlights, legitimately freezes and looks at Roman like he just shot the Samoan in the gut.  
  
  "O-oh," he says, hands reaching out to brush the tense air in between them. "'m sorry, I-I, get upset sometimes cos I can't t-talk— "  
  
  "It's okay," Roman offers. His voice comes out real small, and he winces at that. He was going for soft, not scared, and now Mox is looking at him with worry like he hurt him somehow, and Roman can't take that. He can't take kindness. It ain't right, not in this business. "It's fine, take your time," he tries to rectify with a stronger voice. "No need to rush."  
  
  Mox just blinks at him. His eyes widen for a second, almost like it's the first time he's seeing Roman, and then Mox is turning away from him and heading to the little kitchen. Roman doesn't know the rules yet, can't for the life of him figure them out, so he stays put. He watches Mox pull two glasses from a cupboard and fill them up with water from the tap before the guy is walking back to Roman and handing him one.  
  
  Roman gives a quiet thanks. He feels stiff all over, spine ramrod with tension. Mox chugs down his water like he's been thirsty for days and Roman is putting the glass to his lips when—  
  
  "Never done this before," Mox says, crystal clear. Without even the hint of a stammer. "'m real nervous."  
  
  Roman doesn't know what to say to that so he just drinks his water, slowly, letting the crispness soothe the churning mess within. As soon as he's drained the glass, Mox is grabbing it out of his hand, basically teleporting to the sink to clean the two glasses right then and there. There's something almost frantic in his motions, like if he doesn't scrub the glasses clean as fast as he can, something terrible will happen.  
  
  Roman just wants this to be over with. The clock's ticking, ten minutes already gone by even though it feels like an eternity in Mox's erratic presence, and Roman only spares an hour for each customer, unless they pay for more. So he steadies himself and takes a step forward, then another, then another, until he's standing in front of the sofa and taking off his shirt and Mox turns in time to see him tugging down his sweatpants, too.  
  
  And Mox gasps. Full-on gasps, like the air's been punched out of him. Like his lungs just caved in and he can't breathe and he says, "Wait, w-wait!" with a voice so full of panic Roman feels he's done something terrible just by taking off his clothes. "Wait, don't, I-I," he tries. Roman feels stupid standing there with his pants pulled down. "I don't, don't know what to do, I'm— G-God, I," Mox practically whimpers. "I'm a v-vir—"  
  
  He's hoping the next word that comes out of Mox's mouth is 'virgo', but with the way Mox is freaking out, Roman already knows what he's trying to say. Even though Mox looks like he's about to die of shame, Roman has never felt better. Relief washes over him, more crisp and soothing than the glass of water he had a minute ago. It feels good, knowing Mox has never hurt anyone in a certain way, that all the staring and lurking he's been doing for weeks might have been because of this, not because he's planning something bad for Roman.  
  
  "Hey, hey," Roman soothes, taking mercy on Mox who's already turned red in the face trying to get the words out, trying to stifle the embarrassment and evidently failing. "It's alright, buddy. That's what I'm here for, right? You wanna do this with me where it's safe, right?"  
  
  Mox's face slackens as soon as he hears the word 'safe'. The tension bleeds out of him, out of the air and far up into the atmosphere where it can't choke anyone. "S-safe," he sighs, "Safe, yeah. Y' get it, don't cha?"  
  
  And Roman smiles at that. A real smile this time, not like the ones he's been forcing all night. Maybe he did have the guy read all wrong. Maybe Mox is just a little broken, just trying to muster the courage to do what he's been wanting to do for years. Jesus, just wanting to have something and being unable to for some reason, Roman can relate to that. Can feel that ache in his bones. And Mox, with that big ol' scar on his cranium, his stammer, his many tics, it can't have been easy for him going through life, trying to connect to people and all that.  
  
  So Roman slowly tugs his sweatpants all the way down. Kicks his shoes and socks off, too, so Mox can see all of him, unobstructed. And Mox, the poor bastard, he can't even look. Just squeezes his eyes shut the minute Roman's bare, brows drawn together. It shouldn't make Roman blush, but for some reason, he feels his cheeks burning all the way down to his chest. Has Mox never seen anybody like this before? At all?  
  
  "J-just gimme a, a m-mo—"  
  
  "Okay," Roman says softly.  
  
  After a while, after clenching and unclenching his fists over and over again, Mox opens his eyes and inhales, nice and deep. He seems more in control now, more stable, but from what little Roman's seen of him, he knows it won't last long. But he's calm, for now. Steady as he slowly takes a step towards Roman. The tension's back. It's a different kind now, not the anxious smog choking them both, and Roman licks his lips when Mox is close enough to touch. It's not normal. He doesn't usually like looking at the customer, doesn't even want to on a good day, but Mox makes it so hard to look away.  
  
  "C-can I?" Mox asks, raspy voice low.  
  
  Roman doesn't even know what he's asking, just whispers yes like an amateur, like he hasn't been doing this for a year and doesn't know how bad things can turn when he agrees to things that aren't explicitly clarified. He takes in a breath as Mox brings a hand up to his face. Is he gonna slap him? Pull him by the ear? That happens more often than Roman cares to admit, so often that the hand simply resting on his bearded cheek throws him for a loop.  
  
  Mox gently strokes the side of his face. That's all. Pets him nice and soft and says, "Pretty," and Roman feels the sudden urge to pick his things and run straight out the door, away from whatever this is. It ain't right. It ain't right, no one treats him like this, no one calls him anything but names and slurs while they try to take him apart. That's expected. That's normal. But this... This makes Roman feel like running for the first time.  
  
  He holds his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Mox to turn vicious like everyone else, but he just keeps on petting him from his face down to his neck, over his stuttering pulse, to the tattoo winding around his arm all the way down to his wrist. Mox even holds his fingers for a while. Strokes gently over his knuckles until Roman is worried he's gonna throw up on Mox's nice rug from whatever feeling this is.  
  
  Then the hand is gone. Mox looks at him, just looks at him, blue eyes piercing. Studies his face and his tattoo and nothing below the belt, even though that's Roman's purpose. Roman doesn't get why he's being like this. It... It fucking hurts, damn it. It's all wrong. Fucked up and wrong and sick, being looked at like he's good, being treated so softly. Roman can't stand it. He looks away, down at the fake fur rug. Tries to do his best to keep his eyes from welling with tears.  
  
  "Can I?" Mox says again, and Roman almost tells him to fuck off. Everything hurts. In his stomach, in his chest, everything's turning hot and liquid. He's never felt so scared his whole life. But he says yes anyway, because of the roll of money Roman knows Mox has in his pocket, because of reasons he can't admit to himself, won't admit to himself.  
  
  He says yes and Mox leans in close.  
  
  Roman gasps. Like an idiot. And Mox just pulls back a little and says, "'m I d-doing good?" and Roman wants to cry.  
  
  "Yeah, yeah," he nods quickly, "Please."  
  
  Doesn't know where the 'please' comes from. It just does. Roman starts breathing faster as soon as the word leaves his mouth, and before he can bolt, Mox kisses him. Scratchy beard pressed up against his own, a quick, ten-second kiss that's over before it even starts, but Mox still says "Oh God, oh God," by the end of it, panting for air.  
  
  Whatever's been curling under Roman's skin explodes and sends hot blood spewing fast through his veins. It's never felt like this, never. A full year of dirty fucking never got him as flushed as he is now, sweat beading on his skin over nothing. Is he... Is he allowed to like it? If a stranger's paying him to do it, is he supposed to feel like this? Shame boils in his gut with the rest of the emotional cocktail that Mox has been mixing up for him. Roman can't want this. It's not right, he's just doing this for his little girl, it's not right—  
  
  "Can I?"  
  
  "Yeah."  
  
  Mox kisses him again, deeper this time, full of intent. Roman knows he's a mess when he wraps his arms around Mox without being asked. Knows it when he moans at the first brush of Mox's tongue against his own.  
  
  "B-Bedroom?" Mox asks.  
  
  "Yeah," is all Roman can seem to say.  
  
  He lets Mox guide him to the door in the far corner of the living room, hand warmly clasping his own. Roman gulps at the sight of it. Mox opens the bedroom door and Roman is shocked, absolutely appalled, to find the room as normal as the rest of the place, sweet and homey and nice, nicer than any place Roman's been to. There's a double bed with clean, crisp sheets, God, Roman can smell the detergent on them from all the way over here. A bedside table with a lamp, a potted plant near the window. It's too tidy. Like Mox got the place cleaned up for this. Roman feels filthy standing here, knowing he's the dirtiest thing in the whole place.  
  
  "Okay?" Mox asks, noticing the furrow in his brow.  
  
  Roman can't speak. He'll choke up if he does, he knows it, so he just does what he knows best and pulls Mox flush against him, kisses him hard enough to knock the air out of both of them, even pulls Mox's hands against his ass if it means quelling the ugly feeling swelling up under his breast. Mox grunts like he's been stabbed, but stays where Roman put him. Hands gently kneading his ass as though Roman will turn to dust if he squeezes a little harder. He doesn't dare do anything beyond that.  
  
  "Bed?" Roman says, wanting to speed things along. It's been half an hour of torture, pure torture, Roman's guts twisting and pulling themselves apart. All he wants to do is go back to his little corner, watch the clock tick by with Bayley and Sasha and get home to his girl when the sky starts turning pink. He doesn't want to be here with his chest full of magma, threatening to spill out of his eyes. But Mox has a roll of money in his pocket, Roman thinks. That's why he stays. Only that.  
  
  He feels Mox's hands tugging at the elastic keeping his hair wrapped up. It hurts a little, but the pain is good, warm and familiar. The hand running softly through his freed locks afterwards is not. Mox combs through it with gentle fingers, straightens it out, looks at it in awe. Roman doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve nice things. Can barely provide for his family. He hasn't done anything in his life to merit the warmth in Mox's blue eyes, the soft smile Roman can see behind the beard.  
  
  "Y-Y' gonna show me how?" Mox asks, his voice so loud in the pulsing quiet. "T-Tell me what t' do?"  
  
  Roman swallows before nodding. It's easy, going to the bed and sprawling out on it. That he knows. That is normal. What isn't normal is Mox just standing there looking at him, fists clenched at his sides, when any other customer would have had Roman on his knees and elbows a hundred times over by now. Roman musters all of his patience, his courage, before he looks at Mox and says, "Take off your clothes."  
  
  He expects some form of resistance, because nobody ever listens to Roman. Nobody ever does what he says. But Mox unzips his hoodie, quietly, without complaint. He peels it off, even folds it before putting it in the chair by the door. Then the white tank top underneath goes. Roman almost tells him to keep it on, mouth filling with spit at the sight of flimsy fabric stretched taut over fat pecs, and the thought feels like a kick in the gut, out of place and wrong. Mox sheds the top and the battered jeans and stands there, like Roman did not long ago, waiting for inspection.  
  
  Roman feels like his skin is on fire. He licks his lips, bites into the plush flesh as though the pain can steer him away from the deep end, even though he knows he's already veered way off. God, he can feel... He can feel himself getting hard. Over nothing. Over kisses and glances and silly thoughts in his head, turning him weak.  
  
  "Come here," he says— and is that even his voice? Low and deep, guttural, the way he hasn't heard himself in years.  
  
  He watches Mox swallow, flick a tongue quickly over his lips before taking a step. He's packed with muscle. Not the kind you get in a gym, but whipcord, sinewy, the way people have when they lift heavy things for a living. What did Mox do for a living, Roman wonders. And that's a dangerous thought, that goes beyond professionalism and gets personal, in a bad way. Roman tells himself he doesn't care. He doesn't give a damn about anything but the roll of cash in Mox's pocket, his little girl's meal ticket. That's all.  
  
  When Mox reaches the foot of the bed, Roman says "Get on top of me," and if Roman was mean, he'd laugh at the way Mox goes red so fast. He almost does, but then Mox is laying on top of him, good and heavy between his legs, and Roman realizes he's gone red too, even with his skin tone.  
  
  "O-Oh, oh I," Mox practically whimpers. It shouldn't make Roman's gut churn with something other than disgust, but he feels the pleasure building at the base of his stomach nonetheless, a serving of guilt on the side. "C-Can I, um— hah, R-Ro," Mox pants in his ear, hot breath spilling across his neck. It sends Roman's pulse hammering right through his skin. He hopes Mox can't feel it. It ain't right, for a whore to get this riled up over so little. If Mox feels it, he'll know. He'll know how fucked up Roman is. He'll end it right away and keep his money. Roman needs to get this over with fast.  
  
  "You need to get your fingers in me, open me up, okay?" he says in a rush. It hits him that he left his backpack in the living room, all his essentials forgotten on the floor there. Roman gulps. Here's the trap. Mox will probably ask to fuck him with no condom, use the virgin excuse to do it. That's all this is, a play.  
   
  But Mox reaches out behind him, towards the bedside table, opening the drawer and he's got condoms and lube laying there waiting, different colors and flavors and Roman panics harder than before, doesn't know why. Mox cleaned up the room and got supplies and is being so nice. Roman tries to play the shaking of his body off as excitement. Mox still looks at him softly and says, "'m I doing okay? Wanna be good. Wanna make y' come."  
  
  Fuck. The gasp leaves Roman's mouth before he can stop it. He's hard now. He can feel it. He's never been hard before, not once in a million times he's done this with a customer. No one's even given him a half-chub, but he's hard, cock pressed up against Mox's own and leaking. "Please," he begs, not knowing what for, "please, please."  
  
  Roman guesses Mox takes pity on him after a minute, because he presses a slick finger against Roman's hole, barely pushing in. Of course he has to kiss Roman while he does it, lips pouty and soft. They're pressed chest to chest, groin to groin, mouth to mouth and Roman feels like somebody set his skin on fire, dripping sweat onto Mox's nice, clean sheets as Mox fucks him with his tongue. It's slow, so slow, God, Roman's gonna taste him for weeks. Gonna smell Mox on his skin long after he's gone.  
  
  "More, more, c'mon," Roman pants. Mox doesn't need to be told twice to give him another finger. It's slick, too slick, customers never bother with so much lube. Mox takes his sweet time and seems to relish pulling moans out of Roman with his hands, mirrors every sound Roman makes with a whimper of his own. Then he twists his fingers inside Roman and, "Oh! Oh, right there, yeah, Mox, so good."  
  
  Roman doesn't know if it's the sound of his name or Roman calling him good, but Mox makes a sound like a wounded animal that vibrates right through both of their chests.  
  
  "J-Jesus, Ro, God, y' gonna..." Mox gulps, slurring his words. "Will y' let me... Um. C-Can I?"  
  
  Roman doesn't say anything. Can't, his tongue heavy in his throat, mouth swollen to the point that it hurts. He just spreads his legs wider and hopes Mox gets the point. Mox won't stop kissing him. Even as he reaches into the drawer and pulls out a condom, rips it open and Roman can smell the artificial scent of cherry hit the air. It tugs at something in his chest that he doesn't want prodded at. Makes him whimper, and Mox swallows the sound with his lips again, pushes his tongue in the same moment he pushes his cock into Roman's fluttering hole, leaves Roman hanging there like he belongs.  
  
  "God, oh God," Roman pants, chest heaving. He feels full. Not a feeling he usually likes. But. But. His hair's stuck to his face, sweat making everything stick together and that's normally something that grosses him out, too, but Roman just lets his eyes slide shut and moans, "Go on Mox, go on, fuck me..."  
  
  It's nice, being listened to. Mox is really good at it. He wraps his arms around Roman's torso, presses them flush, and then does exactly what he's told. Knocks the air right out of Roman's lungs but he's not even pounding into him, just thrusting slow and good and deep until Roman can't breathe right. He's gonna come like this, Roman thinks, and whimpers at the thought. Gonna come for the first time with nothing but the friction of Mox's belly against his cock, come with Mox hitting him just right, full weight bearing down on him.  
  
  He wraps his arms around Mox's waist, feeling a little bold. High on whatever Mox is giving him. His legs hang open at Mox's sides, knees pressing into Mox's ribs, and it shouldn't really feel like a hug, but that's exactly where Roman's thoughts stray. He wants Mox to give it to him like this every day, give Roman his cock and his love until little else matters. The thought almost makes him cry. He should have told Mox to fuck off the minute he crossed the road. Now he's all ruined, more broken than he was before. But at least he'll have this one good time.  
  
  He's not even thinking when he presses his lips against the top of Mox's head, against that big, ugly scar. It means something to Mox, though, something hot and good enough to have him moaning out, cock pulsing deep in Roman's hole. He can feel the throb of it right through his belly. Mox doesn't stop. Just keeps going a while longer until he's dragging Roman over the edge with him, too, then keeps at it some more, fucking Roman right through the aftershocks.  
  
  Roman doesn't know how long they stay there wrapped up in each other like that. When Roman has enough strength to open his eyes, the sight of his belly streaked with his own come for once is the strangest thing he's ever seen. His heart pangs, a sharp and sudden ache. Mox has his face buried in the crook of his neck so Roman can't see him, but he can feel it, feel the smile on Mox's lips as it's pressed against his thundering pulse point. Roman doesn't think he'll ever stop feeling hot all over.  
  
  There isn't a clock in the room. Roman already knows it's been more than an hour. Doesn't feel like it at all. None of the usual need to get the cash and rush out, to the point where Roman feels guilty when Mox gets up to grab his hoodie and hands him the roll at the end of the night. Did he really earn it? If it felt good for him, too, did he deserve to have it all the same? There aren't many singles in the roll. It's mostly twenties, tied together with an elastic. Roman gulps. He's got his daughter to think about, but...  
  
  "It's too much, buddy," he says softly. "I can't take all this."  
  
  It's a goddamn stupid thing to say. Big roll of cash in his palm but he can't put it in his bag and shut his mouth because, why? The guy gave him a little kindness? Didn't slap him around hard enough to make his brain spin? That would've done less damage than whatever Roman's doing to himself over this. He has a little kid to think about, Christ's sake.  
  
  Mox just smiles a soft smile, the kind that turns his cheeks all fat and pink, and stammers out a quiet "Y' d'serve it, Ro, keep it all," and presses a kiss to the side of his throat.  
  
  Roman can't find it in himself to argue. They dress up in comfortable silence. Mox even offers his shower, but Roman needs to get back to his corner, let the girls know he's alright before heading back home. He doesn't want to deal with other customers tonight. Mox has taken it out of him in every way, and given Roman enough that he doesn't have to worry about things for a little while. He'll sleep easy for once. Eat without feeling sick with worry over things he can't control.  
  
  "H-Hey," Mox says, after they're all dressed up and Roman's standing at the front door. Mox is still blushing. It'll be hard for Roman to get the sight of him out of his head. It'll take a long time. It'll hurt. "W-Was I good? Y' mean it? When y' said th-that—"  
  
  "Yeah," Roman says. Plain and simple. "Real good, Mox. Real good."  
  
  "Shit, Ro," Mox chuckles, blooming red all the way down to his chest, as far as Roman can see through the white tank top. Roman smiles, another genuine one before night's end, and turns away before he says something stupid, before he ruins this with heavy, sentimental crap that doesn't belong in these streets. He doesn't hear the door close behind him. Mox's still got it open, looking at him walk away. Like he's cherishing the moment.  
  
  Roman gulps. That's just his stupid head making things up. He pulls the bag tighter against his back and exits the building, cold air hitting him hard. The girls are relieved to see him in one piece, to say the least, Bayley and Sasha throwing their arms around him and prodding him to share the story of his great survival. It's been two hours since he left, they tell him. They almost called Joe. Roman doesn't doubt it. He gathers them up in a tight hug and shushes their complaints when he tells them he's going back home. There's always tomorrow.  
  
  The sky isn't pink yet. Roman hasn't been home this early in a real long time. There's a strange sensation to everything, like he isn't really there at all, but far, far away. Up in the clouds. In the stars. The only thing that lets him know it's all real is the hunger in his stomach. Weird. He always feels too grossed out to eat anything after his night job. He helps himself to the bowl of leftover ketchup pasta in the battered little fridge, peeking into the little one's bedroom as he eats it cold, just pleased to be awake for once. The sight of his little girl sleeping peacefully always makes up for the damage sustained during the night hours, though there's none to speak of now. That's a first.  
  
  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
  
  Roman goes grocery shopping in the morning. He gets all the good stuff, gets plenty of treats to fill up the cupboards, too, anxious in a good way for his little girl to come home from school and see it all there for her. He's smart with the rest of the money. Hides it, keeps it somewhere safe with the other coins he's been saving up. Maybe the dream of the RV doesn't have to stay a dream for long.  
  
  But Roman isn't stupid enough to think he can call it a day yet. Mox's money is good, but bills pile up fast, and he knows he'll have to be at his little spot in the corner every night, if he wants to keep the finances nice and steady.  
  
  It's the end of the month, so Roman gets his paycheck from the gym on top of it all like a pretty little cherry. Seth hands him the envelope and shoves a sandwich platter in front of him before plopping in the opposite seat on the bench. Roman can feel the inevitable CrossFit monologue coming on. It's nice. Comfy. If Roman trades a few playful quips over their meal, Seth doesn't point out the sudden shift, just throws his head back and laughs, and Roman feels normal.  
  
  Normal doesn't ever really last long for Roman. At night, when the little one's tucked in safe and sound, Roman straps on his backpack and walks out the door. It's colder than usual for this time of the year. The air bites right through his sparse clothes. Bayley and Sasha seem surprised to see him again, like they were worried Mox scared him off for good and he wouldn't be coming back. Roman can't tell them that he hopes whatever customer picks him up tonight is half as good as Mox was, as sweet, as kind. That would only serve to make a fool out of himself, and Roman's already done that plenty with Mox.  
  
  "Look who's here again."  
  
  Bayley's staring across the road. Roman inhales, afraid to look because it can't be, not so soon, not for him again. He turns slowly, heart in his throat. It's just about the money, he tells himself. Just about Mox's good money and not the guy himself, even though deep down inside Roman knows he'd do it all again for free.  
  
  Roman turns. Across the street stands a lone figure in a hoodie. Tall, tense, muscles packed under the clothes, Roman knows as much. Knows better than he wants to admit, has played the image of him over and over in his head since the moment it was finished, damn near mourning the loss of it. But Mox is right there. Looking right at him. Sharp blue eyes staring back at him from the shadows, full of intent. Roman's all too familiar with how the story goes.  
  
  "Hey," Roman says, letting the air carry his voice across the street.  
  
  It's quiet. The word is the only thing that fills the block. Mox blinks at the sound. His blue eyes soften, jaw slackening, and Roman swears he doesn't feel something twisting up in his guts when Mox's tongue flickers out to wet his lips. Mox runs a hand over his buzzed head, over his face, his beard, blinking again. He looks at Roman. Really looks at Roman. A soft smile finds its way on his mouth. Like waking up from a bad dream.  
  
  "You looking for some company tonight?"

**Author's Note:**

> ...and then Mox and Ro buy an RV together, move out of the scummy city, and raise their little girl together. They have picnics every weekend, and Bayley and Sasha and Seth are there, too. There are sandwich platters for everyone. The End. 
> 
>  
> 
> (Title comes from a drone mix I was listening to while writing this)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIHxSV8jWpA


End file.
